


Almost Home

by Evil_Little_Dog



Category: John Wick (2014)
Genre: Post-Canon, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3708215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evil_Little_Dog/pseuds/Evil_Little_Dog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: John and his new dog take a walk. <br/>Disclaimer: I own nothing of this movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Home

**Author's Note:**

> ...like, immediately post-canon.

It was so late in the night, it was early morning as John and the new dog walked through the streets. He limped, battered and bruised and bleeding. The dog wagged her way along, sniffing at interesting things, barely trained to a leash. At least she came back when he said something. 

Despite his body’s agony, his brain was blissfully blank. There’d been so many deaths over the past forty-eight hours, the city had been bathed in blood. The dog tugged at the end of her leash and he glanced at her. The turning of his neck sent a spike of pain shooting from his shoulder blade up into his skull, an ice pick rush. The dog looked up at him, her ears – what was left of them - rising and falling and her wagging tail slowing. 

They stopped, staring at each other while the city bustled on around them. John bent over to stroke her broad head, peer into her grayish blue eyes. She was solid, not a puppy. Not like Daisy. There had been a Beagle in the shelter he’d broken in to, but he’d only hesitated next to that kennel. No, he couldn’t have a fragile dog, not this time. 

He recognized the one he’d picked; had heard about them. How strong they were, how misused and abused. This type of dog would be the one someone other than his wife would’ve chosen for him – a brawler’s dog. That’s not why he picked her. Big enough to look threatening. Big enough to possibly take a blow, if it came to it. 

John didn’t think it would, this time. Taking out a Russian Mafia kingpin, his son, and his cartel would probably cross his name off the lists of all but the absolutely stupid. 

The dog groaned at his caress, pushing harder against him, nearly enough to knock him down in the state he was in. John staggered, not quite catching his balance, landing hard enough to jar all the aching muscles in his body. His turn to moan, though he bit it back. The dog pressed even closer since he was on her level, licking his face a few times, but mostly leaning against him. “I don’t think I can walk back to the Continental,” he whispered in her small, velvety ear. She wuffed, nudging the side of his face gently. “Yeah. I’ll call a cab.” 

Forty-five minutes later, they walked through the Continental’s door. If Charon was surprised to see him with a dog, he didn’t show it. Neither did anyone else. “Mr. Wick,” he said, nodding urbanely. “Would you like the same room?” 

“Yes, please.” John turned to the dog, then back. “Is she allowed?”

“As long as she’s housetrained and quiet. And I’ll need a name.”

A name. John had never actually named anything before. Not since he was a kid, and that had been a long time ago. He studied her, standing next to him, tail wagging. He couldn’t name her Daisy. She didn’t look like a Daisy. John blew out through his nose and said, “Violet.” At least it kind of matched her coloring. He looked back at Charon. “Violet,” he repeated, and she wagged her tail, thumping his leg with the brick bat heaviness of it. 

“Of course, Mr. Wick.” He passed over the key, and John and Violet stepped onto the elevator. 

They were almost home.


End file.
